


The Hat

by christinefromsherwood



Series: The Magic of Deduction [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, May Contain Members of the Weasley Family, Plot Twist, Sherlock Goes to Hogwarts, Sibling Rivalry, Some Cuteness, With the Sorting, and, deducing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:59:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinefromsherwood/pseuds/christinefromsherwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Cheeky," resonated in his mind and Sherlock started. He didn’t know what he was expecting but it wasn’t this. "You didn’t like my song either, I see!"</p><p>"Well, it was off-key!" Sherlock replied, trying to sound apologetic. He felt a bit embarrassed at having been found out. It also didn’t seem like a good idea to offend the hat. While Sherlock wouldn’t have really minded either of the houses, he’d rather he didn’t have to deal with his brother’s incessant mothering this year.</p><p>"Well, can you see any vocal chords?" the Hat bit back almost immediately. It was offended. "I’m making do with what little lyrical talents the idiot who enchanted me had!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [singthestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singthestars/gifts).



“Mind yer step, now! Firs’-years follow me!”

 _‘_ _Mummy was right as usual._ _’_ Sherlock thought as he stumbled when someone behind him stepped on his heels. It was dark and foggy and the path was steep and slippery. Sherlock and the others had to walk at a brisk pace to keep up with the giant, bearded man that was leading the group. It was also cold and the clouds of condensed air that gathered around their heads certainly didn’t add to the visibility of their surroundings.

Sherlock tugged on the flappy ears of the hat his mother had given him that morning. She had said that it would get chilly in the evening and not to even think about forgetting the hat on the train, because it would come in handy when he was sailing across the lake.

Naturally, Sherlock had protested. The hat – well, excuse me, Mycroft! – _the deerstalker_ was not only the colour of Hippogriff piss, it was also ancient and had a string tied into a bow at the top! Absolutely vile! But of course Mummy, as usual, could not be reasoned with. Not even Mycroft could convince her that _deerstalkers_ were simply not part of the school uniform when he had finished laughing his ass off.

“Oh pish-posh! You’ve only just got rid of that cold, Sherlock, and I will not have you get sick again! You will wear that hat! It’s September and those are Scottish Highlands and you’ll be sailing across a lake. It’s going to be cold and drafty. And I don’t care if the hat offends your fashion sense, it was the best I could find on _such a short notice_!”

And that’s how she got Sherlock to promise to wear the deerstalker; through a guilt trip.

It honestly wasn’t his fault, though! He didn’t mean to set the chest of drawers on fire, even though it was interesting to watch which articles of clothing burst into flame first and burned down quicker. This was his punishment, being forced to wear the most ridiculous hat in existence on his first day of school.

“Nice hat,” came a sneer from his left and Sherlock didn’t need to turn around to see that it was the pudgy, black-haired boy from several compartments over. He’d seen him eyeing the hat for a while, waiting for the giant – actually no! _Half-giant!_ \- to walk to the front of the group.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and didn’t reply.

He knew he looked stupid. But when he looked at the red ears of the short, shivering blond in front of him, he was very glad for his mother’s foresight.

“An’ jus’ round this bend here…” boomed the half-giant excitedly from the front and the whole group staggered to a stop abruptly, causing Sherlock to walk into the blond boy in front of him.

“Sorry,” he muttered, but the boy didn’t seem to notice. His gaze was fixed on something in front of him and his mouth open in a soundless gasp.

All around him there were suddenly many “Ooooohs” and “Aaaaahs” and when Sherlock finally looked up, he gasped in amazement with the rest of them.

In front of the group, the path suddenly opened and they all stood on the edge of a great lake. What really drew the eye though was the gigantic castle that was perched upon a hill above the still water. Many lights streamed from its countless windows through the fog onto the rippling surface of the water, adding magical golden hue to the scene.

“Bloody hell!” whispered the blond. “That’s a lot of towers!”

Sherlock smiled.

“No more’n four to a boat,” hollered the half-giant unexpectedly, startling them all out of their reverie.

And how had Sherlock missed that?

There were nearly a dozen of little boats, swaying gently by the lake’s shore. It was certainly more than they needed, Sherlock realized as he quickly overlooked the heads of his new schoolmates, counting only eighteen. He wasn’t surprised, Mycroft was always yammering about the demography of magical population in Britain, bemoaning the fact that the 70’ weren’t a strong year for the magical community in terms of population growth.

Sherlock wondered if there were any spells on the boats to keep the students from falling into the lake as he stepped gingerly into one of them and sat down quickly. It never hurt to be careful.

The blond looked around the shore for a bit before fixing his gaze on Sherlock and, having decided, jumped in eagerly after him and grinned from the stern. 

“Pretty amazing, huh!” he said, dark blue eyes sparkling with excitement. Sherlock nodded, helpless to keep himself from grinning back. Something about this place made him feel at ease.

“Everyone in?” shouted the half-giant again. He looked very uncomfortable even though he had a boat to himself. How he managed to squeeze his enormous limbs into the tiny boat, Sherlock had no idea. “Alright then. FORWARD-HO!”

And at this command, the fleet of tiny boats sprang up and started racing across the lake’s expanse, as though some invisible rubber band that bound them to their place by the shore snapped suddenly.

Sherlock had never been on a boat before. Why had Sherlock never been on a boat before? This was… sensational, surprising, fantastic and so cool! He knew that if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the salty smell of the ocean hitting his nostrils and making the curls in his hair stiffen. From behind his closed eyelids he could see the scorching light of midday sun, instead of the dim lights of the castle in a fog, and the boat was suddenly much bigger and where his wand was pressed into his trouser pocket, Sherlock could feel a much heavier weight of a sword. 

He smiled a little to himself before opening his eyes and shaking his head a little. There was something very comforting about fulfilling a part of his foolish childhood dream on the day when he was leaving the whole of his childhood behind.

They sat in silence for a while, smiling alternatively at their surroundings and each other.

“How many towers do you think there are?” the blond boy said suddenly. “I’m John Watson, by the way.”

Still a little shaken from his daydream, Sherlock had to search his mind for a while for the correct answer.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said almost distractedly. “And it’s either 22 or 21, depends on whether you count in the broken turret near the greenhouses.”

He allowed himself a small self-satisfied smirk, feeling extremely pleased with himself for having the answer to a question he was certain even most of the staff wouldn’t know.

“Wow! How do you know that?” John had sat up in surprise and blinked a few times rapidly. That was exactly the reaction Sherlock was going for.

“It’s in Hogwarts: A History,” he replied. It wasn’t but John didn’t need to know that.

“No, it isn’t.”

Only he did, damn it!

“I’ve read the whole brick, cover to cover, Sherlock.” John’s eyes were narrowed in at him suspiciously.

Sherlock sighed.

Of course, he should have seen it! John was obviously Muggleborn, so of course he would have read the book, trying to memorize every little fact, fantasising about the place. Very much like he had himself.

“I have an older brother who never shuts up and likes to amaze people with how clever he is,” he confessed with a roll of his eyes and then added nonchalantly: “This little fact must have got stuck in my mind.”

Because there was no way he was telling this boy that he had badgered Mycroft with letters for so long that he finally gave in, went around the place and counted the towers to get some peace. Sadly, he had refused to do the same with the windows.

However, there was something in John’s amused smile that told Sherlock that he already had a fair idea of the true story.

“Got lots of these little facts stuck in your head?” he asked, still smiling. Sherlock thought for a bit about feeling embarrassed and then decided against it. Instead he grinned at John.

“Oh God, yes!”

John smiled mischievously.

“So, you wouldn’t happen to by any chance know, say, the location of the kitchen?”

“Mind yer heads!” yelled the half-giant in the first boat and with surprising agility flattened himself against his tiny boat.

They were approaching the castle and there was a cliff ahead, and an opening in it that was hidden by a curtain of ivy. Sherlock and John dropped to their knees to avoid getting their heads smashed in by the rapidly approaching rock.

“Obviously, I’ve never been there, but I do have a fair idea as to where it could be,” said Sherlock and watched as John’s smile widened.

“So you think you’d know where to look for it?” he whispered and the cliff over their heads gave volume to his words and made them reverberate. Several heads turned in their direction, a red-haired boy tutted at them in disapproval, as though they were disrupting the sanctity of the boat ride by speaking. 

“I might,” said Sherlock again mysteriously and winked. He didn’t bother lowering his voice too much, he found he rather liked being mysterious.

The stones and gravel of the small underground harbour crunched as the fleet of tiny boats ran ashore. _Finally_ , something inside him sighed. Sherlock Holmes arrived at Hogwarts.

 

*

 

“…the Sorting Ceremony will begin shortly and I suggest that you all attempt to smarten yourself up as much as you can while you’re waiting,” said the professor who took them off the half-giant’s hands at the main entrance.

As she led them across Entrance Hall, Sherlock wondered if the ceiling of the room wasn’t visible because it was only lit by the flickering light of the twenty torches, or if the Hall was badly illuminated _so that_ the ceiling wouldn’t be visible and the first years would feel more overwhelmed and impressed. Surely, the Entrance Hall was a highly frequented place and it wouldn’t be practical to have both students and staff stumble about blindly around each other.

And the white marble staircase leading to the higher levels of the castle was sure to be enchanted. There was no way any stone could withstand thousands of feet stomping and trampling all over it and not have any imperfections and indentations. Well, there were none visible due to the medieval lightning choice of the headmaster, and so Sherlock promised himself to remember to check again in the morning.

That’s why he almost sighed in disappointment at being shoved through the door into a small chamber. There was so much to be seen in the Entrance Hall, as compared to this other room, this one was absolutely unremarkable. Dusty and unused, boring.

Why was it even there? What was the point of it? Simply to cram the first years into it and give them a lecture on something they should have (and most of them probably had) looked up on their own? Was there someone who’d be that much of an imbecile to get on the train to go to a school for half a year and not research the housing system?

Sherlock looked up at the stern-looking woman, abandoning his previous staring at the cobweb above the doorway, when he felt the professor’s eyes on him.

“I am afraid that deerstalkers are _not_ part of your prescribed school uniform, Mr…”

Sherlock blinked up at her in surprise.

He had planned to take the hat off as soon as they got out of the boats and he had completely forgotten about it!

He could feel heat rise in his cheeks and he really hoped that his blush wasn’t visible to the rest of the room. He knew his hope was in vain as he heard the giggles and titters of laughter from around him. That was unpleasant.

The professor threw an annoyed look at his classmates and then raised an eyebrow expectantly. Sherlock watched as her face twitched impatiently and the line of her thin lips got even thinner, when he still didn’t answer with his name.

“Holmes, Sherlock Holmes,” he said finally and ignored the laughter that began anew, a little louder this time. The professor’s expression was much more interesting to watch than the childish behaviour of his classmates so Sherlock focused on that.

It had undergone a number of changes in a remarkably small amount of time. Her annoyance gave way to a flash of recognition and then settled on displeasure, before she managed to school her expression into the professional sternness that seemed to come to her naturally, suggesting that she had been in her position of an educator for quite some time.

More importantly, though, Sherlock hazarded a guess that she knew Mycroft and didn’t like him very much. She was a Gryffindor then. Mycroft rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way, but there was generally only one group among which his Slytherin ways provoked this kind of intense dislike simply upon hearing his name.

“Well, Mr _Sherlock_ Holmes,” she said finally. “I suggest you hand the hat over to me, as it is quite inappropriate for the Sorting Ceremony. It will be returned to you by your Head of House after the feast.”

Sherlock took it off and handed it to her without protest.

She walked out of the room without another word, leaving the first-years in a rather ambiguous mood. On one hand they felt highly entertained by the whole episode with the strangely named boy in a funny hat, on the other they had just fully realized the importance of the choice of their future Hogwarts house and their first-day-of-school jitters turned into a massive ball of anxiety. The tension in the room was palpable and as the silence stretched, Sherlock wondered which one of them would break first.

“So,” began one of the girls, nervously prolonging the sound of the “o” and rocking back and forward on her feet. “Sorting, huh… Nervous, anyone?”

Few of the other children glared at her.

“I mean, does anyone know _how_ we’re gonna get sorted?” she continued despite the hostile looks she was getting. Sherlock almost opened his mouth to give her an answer, before thinking better of it. It didn’t matter though, because his answer would only get drowned in the sudden cacophony of “my sister/brother/second cousin twice removed said”.

“It doesn’t matter! We are not _supposed_ to know!” came a rather indignant shout from a gangly, red-haired boy in glasses. “The Sorting is here to test not only our character, knowledge and skills, its purpose is to also test our ability to cope in stressful situations. And if we had any prior knowledge of this test, it would defeat its purpose entirely!”

The entire class fell silent and stared at the boy in a mixture of disbelief and complete revulsion. Sherlock rolled his eyes, he had wondered if they’d have a Mycroft in their year. He had hoped rather fervently that wouldn’t be the case, though apparently his hope was in vain.

“What?” said the redhead as he noticed that the thoughts of his classmates towards him were not exactly charitable. “You know I’m right!”

Sherlock didn’t know what it was that prompted him to turn to look at John, who was standing beside him. When he did, though, he found that John was looking at him too and they both rolled their eyes in unison. Sherlock couldn’t stop the smile that made his way onto his face uncontrollably.

He didn’t know what to call the feeling that suddenly spread through his stomach and into his limbs. It was really strange and almost felt like… kinship? When he turned to look at John again from the corner of his eye, he found that John was still watching him.

“You don’t seem nervous,” John said after a while, when the children around them began to stomp their feet in agitation and whisper, again.

“No,” Sherlock replied and then added in a tone that he hoped didn’t sound uncertain: “Should I be nervous?”

“Well, most of us are,” said John slowly. “This Sorting seems like pretty important business and we don’t even know how they’re gonna do that, so…”

Sherlock frowned.

“You mean your sister didn’t tell you?”

“Well, not really. I mean, I hope she wasn’t serious when she said, we’d have to strip, jump into the lake and then they’d decide on the house based on the size and shape of our goose bumps.”

Sherlock chuckled, a strange sound in the otherwise tense atmosphere of the room, and John seemed on the verge of joining him, when he suddenly frowned.

“Wait a minute! How do you know about Harry?” he exclaimed and got tutted at by the redhead again.

“Harry? I thought you had a sister?” Sherlock felt as confused as John looked right now.

“Harry’s short for Harriet,” John explained. “I’m sure I didn’t tell you about her.”

“Ah, that explains it, then. I thought I got something wrong, Mycroft would have a field day!”

“What are you talking about? Who on earth is Mycroft and how do you know about my sister?” John demanded and Sherlock was startled to see that he was a bit angry as well as confused.

He pushed the flash of disappointment quickly away though, this had happened too many times for him to be genuinely surprised anymore.

“Mycroft is my brother and since he’s older he fancies he’s smarter than me. We have this game where I prove to him that he’s not by observing people and objects and deducing facts about them. You can tell a lot about a person simply by looking at his shoes, it’s quite simple really.”

John looked sceptical.

“And that’s how you knew about my sister? By my shoes?”

Sherlock chuckled.

“Not your shoes, your sweater. Your shoes began it, though.”

John looked even more disbelieving, he didn’t seem angry anymore though and Sherlock felt himself relax again as he rushed into an explanation.

“Your shoes are a size too small for you, you were constantly adjusting them in the boat. If it was half a size, you wouldn’t fidget that much and it wouldn’t matter at all since your feet are still growing and your shoes are bound to get a little tight from time to time. The full size was important though, it indicated that either you’re a Muggleborn and your parents don’t have a lot of money to buy you new ones, or that they aren’t very good at household charms just like my father. Then I noticed your sweater. It’s been washed enough times so the original bright pink is a white now, but the ink on the tag that peaked from under your robes still said _China_ , which supported the fact that you’re a Muggleborn and low on funds. Coming to the conclusion that you have an older sister was then quite natural. _Pink!”_

Sherlock threw his hands in the air in a gesture that to him meant _See? Pink! Isn’t it obvious?_ , but when he saw John’s uncomprehending expression, he lowered them again and sighed in defeat before continuing with his explanation:

 “The sweater’s not small enough to have been worn by you the amount of time that would warrant the many washings which had changed its colour so significantly. That means it was handed down to you by an older sibling. It’s been my experience that older brothers tend to display whatever small amount of superiority they can manage and one does not associate the colour pink with showing dominance. That means you have an older sister. You are nervous, but not nearly as nervous as most other Muggleborn students here, which indicates that your older sister also attends Hogwarts.”

John was staring at him with his mouth wide open and Sherlock suddenly felt very unsure. Not of his deductions, he was quite certain those were correct, but he began to think that maybe this time he should have kept them to himself. He was familiar with how people reacted to his deductions and usually he didn’t care but now for some reason Sherlock wondered if he had made a mistake and lost himself a valuable ally. Maybe it was the approving glint in John’s eyes when he knew the correct number of Hogwarts’s towers or maybe it was the smile he got for the promise of finding the kitchen, Sherlock couldn’t exactly pinpoint it, but the thought of alienating John made him uneasy.

“Sorry,” he added quickly. That’s what Mummy taught him to say, but still the word felt a bit unfamiliar in his mouth. It seemed to have woken John out of his stupor, though.

“No, I… that’s…,” John was stumbling over his words and shaking his head, as though he was still trying to comprehend all the information that was hurled at him in the last sixty seconds. At last to Sherlock’s surprise he smiled and said: “Wow, man! That was amazing!”

Sherlock had no idea what to say to that. People were usually angry or embarrassed when they heard about Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s deducing game. Usually they tended to keep their distance when they found out, John wasn’t moving away, though.

Instead he nudged Sherlock awkwardly with his elbow, as he checked his watch, grinned and said, “It’s been ten minutes already and McGonagall’s bound to be back soon, so tell me, how do they sort us?”

 

*

 

WHY?! Why they felt the need to repeat the explanation of the housing system AGAIN was beyond Sherlock. He also couldn’t work out why they chose to do so through an idiotic, off-key song of the ancient piece of clothing that was supposed to do their sorting. Why had Mycroft not warned him about this? He would have brought ear plugs!

Sherlock turned towards the Slytherin table and searched the many faces, most of which seemed to reflect his annoyance at the tattered hat, for one with a pointy nose and double chin. Mycroft caught his eyes and smirked evilly, apparently enjoying his little brother’s displeasure, before shifting his eyes slightly to the side of Sherlock to eye John before raising his eyebrows in undisguised surprise. Sherlock glared at him before turning away to look ahead at the staff table. He still felt Mycroft’s probing gaze on his back and clenched his fists. Mycroft should keep his big, fat nose to himself. It wasn’t his concern who Sherlock talked to!

Sherlock suddenly realised that the hat had stopped singing and was now bowing his pointy end to a round of applause. After a short deliberation Sherlock joined in, he was certain that most of the applause was to show the happiness of both the students and the staff at the song finally being over.

“Adcock, Damien!” McGonagall read out from a roll of parchment and a tall boy with mousy brown hair and a nose so pointy that its pointy-ness could rival Mycroft’s stepped forward. Sherlock wasn’t surprised when the Hat yelled “SLYTHERIN” a short while after. Apparently it didn’t want Mycroft to feel alone with his pointy nose in Slytherin.

After that came Cadwallader Daniel (Hufflepuff), Darrell Thomas (Hufflepuff), Dunn Emily (Slytherin), Dyson Richard (Slytherin). Eccleston Acacia, the girl who first posed the question of Sorting, also went to join the clapping Slytherins. Eldridge Aveline was the first student to go sit at the Ravenclaw table and she was welcomed with loud shouts, handshakes and claps on the back. Sherlock wondered if they’d insist on the handshakes and shouting when he went to join them. Hargrave Barney was the second student to have the hat shout RAVENCLAW across the whole Great Hall and he was so surprised by this that he remained sitting on the three-legged stool for a whole minute before the professor took the hat off his head and sent him towards the sea of blue collars.

“Holmes…” said the professor next and Sherlock stiffened in surprise. He should have expected his name to be called soon, when he heard that they were at the letter H, but he had been too busy scoffing at poor Barney and was taken by surprise.

As was the whole of the Great Hall, because the professor stopped at his surname and furrowed her eyebrows. Then she looked up at him, at the Slytherin table and at her parchment again before seeming to make up her mind and calling:

“Holmes, Sherlock!”

Sherlock couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face and he grinned gratefully at the professor, whose name he now felt himself regretting that he didn’t pay attention to, before stalking up to the stool and sitting down. He enjoyed the look of surprise he caught on Mycroft’s face before the Sorting Hat fell over his eyes and ears.

The feeling of gratefulness he felt towards the professor for calling Sherlock rather than William was overcome by the smell that hit his nostrils. He probably shouldn’t have expected it to smell of roses after having been placed upon thousands and thousands of heads, the attitudes towards personal hygiene were rather varied across the centuries after all.

 _Cheeky,_ resonated in his mind and Sherlock started. He didn’t know what he was expecting but it wasn’t this. _You didn_ _’_ _t like my song either, I see!_

 _Well, it_ was _off-key!_ Sherlock replied, trying to sound apologetic. He felt a bit embarrassed at having been found out. It also didn’t seem like a good idea to offend the hat. While Sherlock wouldn’t have really minded either of the houses, he’d rather he didn’t have to deal with his brother’s incessant mothering this year.

 _Well, can you see any vocal chords?_ the Hat bit back almost immediately. It was offended. _I_ _’_ _m making do with what little lyrical talents the idiot who enchanted me had!_

 _Who was that?_ Sherlock was curious despite himself. Logically, he knew that the Hat was only an object and though animate, it couldn’t _really_ be offended. But he also knew that he wouldn’t have other opportunities to find anything else about it.

 _Godric Gryffindor,_ answered the voice. _He was a brave fellow and he could be smart, but sometimes he displayed unusual amounts of idiocy. An awful lot like you, if you ask me!_

“Hey!” Sherlock protested and it was a second later when he heard the laughter from all around him that he realized he had protested out loud. He felt himself blush for the second time that evening.

 _I rest my case,_ the Hat snickered. _Now on with the Sorting!_

 _Finally!_ Sherlock said snarkily. He couldn’t help himself as he rolled his eyes under the hat. He decided he didn’t really like it poking around in his head.

 _Hmmm, you would make a good Slytherin, you know,_ the Hat said. _You_ _’_ _d fit in. You_ _’_ _re cunning, sometimes calculating, you want to prove yourself smarter than anyone with that game you and your brother play._

_There_ _’_ _s also the thirst for knowledge. That would make you a great Ravenclaw, a fine asset to the house. It_ _’_ _s been nearly seven years since I saw a mind as brilliant as yours._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course, the brilliant Mycroft!

_He is brilliant and you know it, little Sherlock. Don_ _’_ _t forget that I can see into your mind! You both are. I probably shouldn_ _’_ _t tell you that, no need to feed that ego of yours, but you could give an eleven-year-old Albus a run for his money._

The Hat chuckled as Sherlock felt his eyes grow wide at the unexpected compliment.

_So it_ _’_ _s either Slytherin or Ravenclaw, well, or Hufflepuff, you know… Well, no, that wouldn_ _’_ _t be good for either you or them. You aren_ _’_ _t afraid to work hard for the things you want, but you aren_ _’_ _t exactly fond of the colour yellow and being chummy with people._

Sherlock couldn’t help but agree.

_Oh, I have a brilliant idea! I know exactly where to put you!_

_What? Where?!_ Sherlock couldn’t help but be alarmed at the Hat’s sudden change of tone.

 _You are clever and cunning and hard-working, but deep down, deep down, you want… no, you_ long _for an adventure! And you may not feel brave, little pirate, but bravery is exactly what you need._

 _What? No!_ Sherlock was surprised. He expected either Ravenclaw or Slytherin and he hoped for Ravenclaw. A place where he could study without being bothered, interrupted or laughed at. The Hat couldn’t be serious!

 _Oh, don_ _’_ _t spoil my fun now! You know I_ _’_ _m right, deep down you know it, little pirate. You belong in_ “GRYFFINDOR!”

Sherlock couldn’t believe it, he simply couldn’t believe it! The Hat had shouted the last word out loud for all the Hall to hear and there was no more chance for take-backs or negotiation.

There was a long moment of absolute silence before the Hat was lifted off his eyes and head and the Hall erupted in red and gold as the students from Gryffindor table rose in deafening clamour to welcome the first Gryffindor student of the year 1987 into their midst. The professor holding the Sorting Hat and a roll of parchment gave him a smile and this time it touched her eyes.

Sherlock couldn’t believe it!

His legs walked him to the Gryffindor table all on their own with no command from his mind whatsoever and Sherlock accepted handshakes that threatened to tear his arm out if it socket and claps on his back that had him nearly gasping for breath. All the time he avoided looking in one particular direction.

He could feel Mycroft’s eyes boring into his back, but for some reason he couldn’t explain, he didn’t want to turn around. He had imagined walking up to the Ravenclaw table and throwing a victorious smirk Mycroft’s way, showing him that he had been deemed smarter than him by the Hogwarts’s Sorting Hat. He had even pictured sitting down at the Slytherin table as far away from Mycroft as possible, trying to keep away from his annoying know-it-all looks for a whole year before finally having some peace. He wouldn’t have minded, okay, no… he probably would have minded having to spend seven years with people who were as annoyingly friendly as the Hufflepuffs. But he had never, not even for a second, contemplated being a Gryffindor.

He wasn’t brave, he wasn’t loud, he wasn’t an _one for all, all for one_ kind of guy! What had the Hat been thinking? What was Mycroft thinking?

The Sorting continued and after Honeybourne Azure, who went to sit with the Ravenclaws, Howe Johnathan was made the second Gryffindor of the year and Sherlock clapped politely as the rest of his table rose to their feet to welcome Johnathan as loudly as they could.

Sherlock shook his head in annoyance. He didn’t like moments like these when he couldn’t understand his own reasoning. What was his problem? He didn’t want Mycroft’s approval, did he? So why should what Mycroft thought matter at all?!

Sherlock decided it didn’t matter and he turned around and glared at his older brother across the room defiantly. To his surprise, Mycroft’s face was neither victoriously snide nor condescendingly all-knowing. If his expression said anything at all, it said that he was rather bored with the whole Sorting Ceremony and couldn’t wait for the dessert anymore. The nod he gave Sherlock across the hall was one of polite disinterest and Sherlock knew that, surprisingly, Mycroft was pleased. He glared at him some more before turning to watch the ceremony again, ignoring both the smile he saw spread across his older brother’s face just as he looked away and the one that made his way onto his.

There was another boy at the Gryffindor table, one who introduced himself loudly to every person he shook hands with as “Balfour, but call me Big Ball!” As he was rather tall and thin, it seemed to Sherlock like a very stupid nickname.

“I’m killer on a broomstick with a bat in my hand!” _Big Ball_ added at the prompting from a muscly red head who, Sherlock knew from experience, was the most vigorous hand-shaker of them all. He also made a point of introducing himself and his position repeatedly and quite loudly.

“I’m the _captain_ of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Charlie Weasley. You’re tall and strong. Pity you’re a firstie. But if you train, you’re sure to make the team next year!” 

Sherlock tuned out the rest of their conversation. Instead moving his focus back to the Sorting and John Watson. Sherlock wondered where he’d be placed. Before his own Sorting he was almost certain that he could predict a person’s House after a few minutes of conversation, now he wasn’t so sure any more.

Murgatroyd Mary and O’Donnel Catriona went to join Darrel Thomas in Hufflepuff and Sherlock had realised he had missed the Sorting of the boy who didn’t like his hat. He wasn’t really surprised to see him sitting at the Ravenclaw table and that calmed him a little. Then Ruskin Rose blushed deep red as she went to join the Gryffindors and Sherlock felt that again all was well with the universe.

“Watson, John!” called the professor and as the Hat went over John’s eyes, Sherlock found himself wishing illogically that the Hat would put him in Gryffindor. He knew it was illogical because if there ever was someone who matched the prescribed Gryffindor qualities to a T, surely it was John Watson. And it was also illogical because it really shouldn’t matter what House John Watson joined, he was simply a boy who shared a boat with Sherlock and talked to him for a few minutes.

Still, Sherlock felt his body stiffen as the Sorting Hat opened the crack in its leather and let out a loud: “Sssssssssss…. GRYFFINDOR!”

The Gryffindors clapped and cheered again, this time there was a touch of uncertainty in their revelry. John, however, didn’t seem to notice as he grinned at Sherlock and sat down next to him.

The strange hiss the Hat had made was forgotten though, as the professor called out the next name.

“Aww, look at our little Perce!” said Charlie Weasley, pretending to wipe a tear from his cheek.

“All grown up!” added another red head and the two of them made a show of hugging each other around their shoulders as the annoying boy who gave the first years a lecture on the importance of Sorting sat on the stool.

“Oh, come on, Hat! He’s a Weasley, he belongs in Gryffindor and we’re hungry!” shouted Charlie Weasley out loud and was greeted with a round of approving laughter. Sherlock wasn’t so sure of that. The Hat didn’t seem so sure either and it was good five minutes before it gave the two brothers the answer they wanted.

Only one boy remained to be sorted now and whether the decision was really so easy for the Hat or it sensed the impatience of the room, the Gryffindor table was soon one Wood Oliver richer and the feast began.

 

*

 

Sherlock didn’t have a watch, so he didn’t know how long the feast lasted, but to him it seemed to have lasted entirely too long. Sherlock couldn’t understand how people could stuff their faces with so much food and he was used to living with Mycroft! John seemed to have been enjoying himself though, and at one point he even sparked a discussion about their wands and what kind they were that all the Gryffindor first years joined and Sherlock actually enjoyed taking part in. Nevertheless, he was glad when the Headmaster twinkled at them from behind his glasses and sent them all to bed.

Sherlock really wished he had been less tired and could fully enjoy the many portraits, mirrors, hidden alcoves and doors that they passed on their way to the Gryffindor tower. As embarrassing as it was, he could hardly keep track of all the turns they made, and in his sluggishly tired mind he promised himself to explore it all tomorrow. Finally, it had seemed as though they arrived at their final destination. One of the Weasley brothers, Sherlock really couldn’t be bothered to remember which one, announced to the portrait of a portly woman in a pink dress that was two sizes too tight the words _Ludus_ _profectus est_ and they all stumbled into the Gryffindor common room.

The red headed prefect was telling them something about how the password was secret (Extraordinary!), how the portrait was secret (Shocking!) and how boys and girls slept in separate parts of the tower (Duh!). And again, Sherlock really couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to him. He just wanted to go to sleep.

His mind seemed to register an intense feeling of injustice at the irony of fate, as he read the three names on the door to his bedroom of the next seven years and realized that the Mycroft’s of the world simply couldn’t be escaped from. He simply shrugged his shoulders tiredly at John’s raised eyebrows when Percy Weasley tutted at them for not changing into their pajamas before flinging themselves onto their beds.

All he could manage to do was grin lazily at the deerstalker on his nightstand and replay the strangest conversation he had ever had with anyone.

_“_ _You know, the Hat was seriously thinking of putting me in Slytherin or Hufflepuff, as well as Gryffindor,_ _”_ _said John quietly after his second scoop of chocolate ice cream. “Not that there_ _’_  s _anything wrong with being Slytherin or Hufflepuff!”_

 _“_ _I know there_ _’_ _s nothing wrong with it.”_

 _“_ _Yeah, I_ _’_ _m just saying. It'_ _s all fine,” John added hastily. “Harry_ _’s_ _a Hufflepuff, your brother_ _’_ _s a Slytherin-“_

 _“_ _My brother is an idiot.”_

 _“_ _Well, okay, that Acacia seemed like an alright sort of girl. I wanted to be in Gryffindor, though. Sharing a room with my sister during the summer isn_ _’_ _t fun at all and I quite fancy having a bit of a break before I have to go near her again.”_

_For once in his life, Sherlock could sympathize with someone wholeheartedly._

_“_ _Plus, you know, I thought it would be nice, since I_ _’_ _d already have a friend here.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my the wonderful singthestars (johnwatsons-mustache currently on Tumblr) who not only prompted this story, but did the beta-reading too!  
> Any mistakes that you found are the fault of my incessant editing that happened after she sent me her correction...  
> So thanks a lot, Kate! There would be no story without you! 
> 
> Additional Info:  
> "Ludus profectus est" is meant to mean The Game is on! (Or the next best thing I found, The Game is in progress...) I don't know any Latin and so if any of you do and Ludus profectus est doesn't mean what I think it means, send me the correction, please?


End file.
